


Art of Falling

by Everlind



Series: Centaurstuck [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Centaurstuck, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poaching, Unconventional Families, alternate universe - centaurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 04:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4377806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What… what’s going on? Tell me, who is it?”</p><p><i>Please</i>, you think. Please, don’t.</p><p>Your father lifts a hand and presses his knuckles to his mouth, eyes warily on Mr. Egbert. Who opens his mouth, closes it. Open, hesitate, close. Like the words are too big and heavy, sitting like lead on his tongue. Then, he answers: “My son is missing.”</p><p> </p><p>And you never told him. You never told him.</p><p>----<br/>In which a certain someone is horsenapped and a search party is mounted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art of Falling

There’s a knock on the door. That’s it, just a polite if rather hurried rapping, then expectant silence. Nobody slamming open the door singing _honey, I’m home_! or tumbling inside in an arguing knot of hooves and hair. Must be an equitaur; those are the only windbags who like to pretend personal and private boundaries are a commodity that can be bartered for by sticking something as inane as a bell to their front door.

Whatever works for them, sure, great, but now you have to lever your spotted rear-end out of the nice warm hollow in your blankets due to their general incompetence at opening doors.

John’s father is standing in the doorway.

Instantly you’re excruciatingly aware of your rather rumpled ‘Orgasm Donor’ t-shirt (your family is a slobbering pack of douchebags) and crazy hair, like you’re fresh off duty from marathon humping half the village. Undoubtedly you are making the best impression right now, _clearly_ you are prime potential boyfriend material for his offspring. Clearly. Fuck your hot life.

“Sir?” you blurt, rather idiotically, trying to cross your arms over the ‘Orgasm’ on your shirt without drawing his attention to it. Nothing to see here, nope.

Mr. Egbert takes off his hat, clutches it to his chest with white knuckled fingers until the brim audibly pops. There’s an unfathomable expression in his eyes. Sweat beads on his upper lip and his flanks are pumping, you wonder if he actually ran all the way. “Karkat, son, is your father home?” His voice, however, is perfectly composed.

He is not, it is one of those extremely rare and coveted occasions you’re home alone. “No, he’s not, but I can call for him if you’d like?” you offer in your most polished language.

“I’d appreciate it.”

Alright then. You poke your head past the doorframe and fill all four lungs with as much air as you can manage. “ _DAAAAAAAAAD!!_ ”

Mr. Egbert’s hat crumples between his fingers as he flinches, and a flock of birds takes to the air in startled fright. Oh, godfuckingshit, you should’ve just… gone and fetched him. Right. Good going Karkat, way to act like the uncivilised backwater assnugget you kind of totally are.

Although it is mildly gratifying to have your dad screaming _COMING_ back just as hard from the dining hall, to general hilarity and applause from anyone in the vicinity. Mr. Egbert doesn’t even so much as twitch. Just stands there, clutching his fedora, face blank, ears flattened smooth against his neatly combed hair.

That’s when you realize something is wrong.

Your dad rounds the corner in a Kiss The Cook apron, and judging by his wayward hair it looks like Disciple has been doing just that. Wonderful, now you’re a matching father-offspring set of stupidity. “What is it, pumpk- oh, James, what brings you here?”

“Could we speak?” Mr. Egbert asks, tone low and urgent. “In private?”

“I, yes, of course,” your dad nods, reading something in the set of Mr. Egbert’s face that resets him to leader mode instantly. “Amscray kiddo,” he shoos you outside, ushers John’s dad through the door and closes it in your face.

“I was studying,” you protest to the door.

You’ve barely turned tail to head for the kitchen when the door swings open again, nearly whacking you in the hindquarters. “Karkat?” your dad says, “You better come inside, it’s probably better if you hear this now, from us.”

On your way in your father’s hand briefly cups your nape, massages it, and you know that whatever they’ll say is going to be worse than bad. Unease roils through you.

Mr. Egbert is standing at the low table, towering over it far too high for it to be of any use. He’s still clutching his fedora to his chest, prepared to capture his heart in it were it to burst forth from his chest.

“Sit down, son,” Mr. Egbert says.

You don’t sit down. “What’s wrong?” you demand, hating how they’re dancing around you, like they suspect you won’t be able to handle the news, like you’re something small and fragile that needs to be sheltered, protected. You don’t. You’ve seen bad. You’ve seen worse.

“Sit down,” your father urges.

You don’t sit down. Just stare at them, jaw locked. This isn’t the first time you tasted this particular brand of dread and everything about them, about the very atmosphere, smacks of just that. “Who’s hurt?”

Your father and Mr. Egbert exchange a look. Your stomach turns itself over, and over again, souring with curdling suspicion.

“Karkat, when did you return from patrol?” your father asks.

“About two hours ago,” you tell him. “Why?!”

He answers your question with another: “Did you see anything unusual?”

You stare at him. “No, no—“ you didn’t, right? It’s a gorgeous summer day, and everything had been bright and green and damnably hot. You remember staring out over the searing plains hemming your forest, nothing but a sea of grass stretching on towards the blue horizon. “No,” you conclude. “Nothing to report, sir.” The formality slips from your tongue despite yourself, an ingrained habit from debriefing with The Marquise.

“I see,” your father sighs.

“You’re absolutely sure?” Mr. Egbert presses.

“Yes!” you burst out, voice cracking with rising panic. “What… what’s going on? Tell me, who is it?”

 _Please_ , you think. Please, don’t.

Your father lifts a hand and presses his knuckles to his mouth, eyes warily on Mr. Egbert. Who opens his mouth, closes it. Open, hesitate, close. Like the words are too big and heavy, sitting like lead on his tongue. Then, he answers: “My son is missing.”

The world stops, or that’s what it feels like, a heart-wrenching tug on your gut and then nothing, just nothing. You understand the words, but they fail to seem real, fail to make sense. Like they said you had to stop breathing, or told you the ocean dried up, or the stars stopped shining.

White noise.

Then ringing.

It’s ninety some degrees outside easy, but you go cold, start to shake.

_Grandma? Is Aunt Tegmen dead?_

Dead, dead, they all fucking died, went into the fire and burned until you could taste them on the air, they didn’t come back because they died, they all died, your aunt, and your uncle, and Gamzee cried and cried and cried and your father was red, red and wet and scared and you could’t. do. anything.

A very distant, cruelly cynical part of your mind points out that Kankri isn’t full of bovine blither after all. Or no, wait, he was, he is, he fucking is, _this_ is you being triggered, standing in your safe home (lies) on a glorious summer day with the taste of your frying family thick on your tongue more than a decade later.

You’ve been gutted, left you hollow and yawning and empty, suddenly, a frightfully huge raw part scraped away, a part that might just be John. _John_. No, no, not again, no god, no fuck, NO. NO. Not John. Please. Not John.

“Son,” someone says, you don’t fucking care who, but your body kickstarts itself with a choking mouthful if air that leaves you nauseous.

“When— where—?” you grit out, mind reeling as it flashes back to your patrol route, for anything, any _hint_ at all, what did you miss? Right under your own damn nose, too, you trained for this, this is your motherfucking job. “He was with us after school,” you say, and he was, you’re absolutely sure, he and Dave had been grappling, pulling and pushing and the muscles had coiled under his dark coat like living strength. All you’d been able to think of was those muscles shifting against your belly and legs as he carried you home, the heat of his body and his scent and your fingers in his hair. His face close to yours.

“We are relatively sure Dave saw him last,” Mr. Egbert elaborates. “They parted ways when Dave decided to visit his brother at the workshop. Nobody has seen him since.” Silence. Egbert throws his fedora down on the table, the strength suddenly flowing from him. “He didn’t come home for dinner.”

John, gone. John out there, hurt, maybe worse, scared and in pain and you fucked up, you fucking just… fucked up again, because you’re Cursores, you walked the perimeter and you know you have to be alert, have to be the eyes and ears for your people, always be alert for danger and you did not even manage to do that, your goddamn job you were so fucking proud of.

And now they got John.

And you never told him. You never told him.

No, absolutely not, fuck this. Seriously, fuck this. You are going to go out there and tear the living skin from anybody who so much as harmed a hair on his body. “We need to mount a search party,” you say. “Now.”

Your father is looking at you with something akin to horrified recognition, like you just mirrored a memory that physically pains him.

All he says, however, is: “Right away.” 

*

You hit the ravine at the exact moment the last rays of the sun flare to a defiant death beyond the distant hills. The sky is left a shy periwinkle, shadows still crowding underneath the trees, biding their time until they can creep out and cover the world.

The ground falls away sharply right before your hooves, all it would take is for you to loose your balance to meet a similar fate to Tavros’. You really do not want to look down, you never saw Tavros broken at the bottom of it and you don’t think you could handle it if it were John there, shattered and crumpled, never to run again. It would break you as well.

Right. You breathe in deeply, close your eyes, slowly empty your lungs. Then you angle your flashlight down and lean forward. Nothing. Just some choked shrubbery at the bottom, crumbled rocks cast into sharp contrast by the beam. Carefully you walk the edge of the incline the west-to-east, scanning the ravine for any sign of passage until an erratic swoop of light ahead of you betrays Jade’s approach. You meet half-way.

“Well, he’s not down there,” she announces with false cheer, swinging the flashlight up and into your eyes.

“Shit!” you slap a hand across your face. “Fucking hell, Harley, stop ruining my night vision, are you trying to blind me? Cause you’re doing fantastic job if you are.”

“Sor _ry_ ,” she snaps, stomping a hoof huffily, but obliging clicks it off. You follow suit, but not before you catch the reflection bouncing from Nepeta’s eyes as she comes stalking out of the trees. For five hundred pounds of pure muscle she’s uncannily noiseless when she wants to be.

“Negative,” she says. “I combed evefurry single inch, but no John.”

Your throat is tight. Does this mean he’s just… not there? That they took him, all of him, with them? Or he’s laying somewhere, hurt, and the three of you completely missed him.

Jade sighs. “We should head-“

“Not yet,” you snap, fingers tightening until the flashlight’s plastic casing creaks.

Jade exhales, swings her rifle up to rest on her right shoulder. Her ears are pricked and alert, the rest of her solid and steady as a rock, but you can smell fear on her, fear for John, same as yours.

The walkie at your hip crackles. “Base to party three,” comes the tinny voice, and you drop your flashlight in a hurry to get it. 

“Vriska? Go for Karkat. Over.”

“Karkat,” comes the crackling reply, painfully loud in the encroaching night. “The ravine? Over.”

“Nothing.” You forget to say over.

“Oh,” comes her response, relief and apprehension packed together into that single sound. Of course she’d be relieved he’s not down there. She, more than anyone and fuck, so are you, but this just means another dead end.

It’s been hours. The chances of his survival decrease exponentially the longer it takes to find him.

“We'll continue searching. Over.”

Vriska doesn’t respond, and the signal dies to a static hiss. You take that to mean she hasn’t had any more success than you three had, so you tuck the walkie away and accept your flashlight from Nepeta.

“What do you want to do now?” Nepeta asks, resting her palm on the hump of your withers.

“We should head back,” Jade says firmly. She’s staring out over the ravine, expression clouded and ears pricked. Her hand is steady on the butt of her gun. 

You narrow your eyes at her. “Not yet. I want to skim the area one last time.”

Jade stares at you, green eyes wide and hard and hurt behind her glasses. “He’s not here, and you know it.” The words fall out strained, like they cost enormous effort to admit. “We can stand around and pretend otherwise and waste everybody’s time, John’s included!” And that right there is the undiluted truth being rubbed in like salt in open wounds: you’re wasting his time. She might as well have kicked you. “Or we can head back and see if we can be assigned to a new area.” With that, she swings around and trots off, fully expecting you and Nepeta to follow.

You don’t say anything as the three of you backtrack, hating Jade for being right, and hating yourself more for, well, everything. Was there anything you missed? Signs of struggle? Trampled grass? A cry? Did you allow yourself to be lulled by the summer heat and the lazily waving grass? Was John right there, and you missed him?

Could you have prevented this?

Over the years you’ve often wondered whether mom knew you loved her. Did you hug her? Were you nice to her, in those final moments? What were your last words to her, the last interaction, the last form of physical contact? You can’t remember, you were too young, and the memories are far off and hazy, almost impersonal, seen through the eyes of a much younger, carefree version of yourself.

Now, you know she was probably still alive when they began… began taking. When they harvested… parts.

Did. Did she lie there, regretting? Did she lie there as they killed her and wish you’d been nicer, sweeter? Maybe you’d been mean to her? Thoughtless and egocentric because you were a child and didn’t get what you wanted? You can’t remember, and you’ve never dared to ask your father or brother. It’s just that, well, you aren’t nice. It’s likely you weren’t then, either.

And, fuck, you just can’t remember the last words you spoke to John. You should, right? You should know, it’s been barely hours, but you don’t, you can’t even remember if you actually told him goodbye.

You remember the glare of the sun on his coat and the glow of his brown skin and thinking he was beautiful, and kind of completely horrible, and perfect.

You wish.

 _Gods_.

Why didn’t you kiss him?

And there, _there_ , that right there, fuck, aren’t you a sack of garbage? John could be dead, he could be dead and you might never know for sure, and you, selfish piece of shit that you are, are feeling sorry for yourself. Boo fucking hoo. Mother of fuck, but you’re a horrible person.

“This would be so much easier if Bec was here,” Jade seethes, jolting you out of your self loathing. “Stupid dumb dog, with his stupid dumb disappearing, and his stupid dumb timing.”

You keep your mouth shut all nice and good, more air-tight than a lid on a Tupperware, full lockdown. Definitely don’t tell Jade you kind of want to mince up her mutt for conveniently wandering off when you most need him. Only damn tracking dog between both your villages; gone. Poof! Off to sniff some butts and piss on someone’s petunias. Fucking useless awful beast.

“Maybe he’s back at the village by now,” Nepeta pipes up. She doesn’t specify whether she means the damn dog or John, but you can feel her knuckles play along yours gently, before she hooks her ring finger around your pinkie.

Jade doesn’t say anything about it. Instead she keeps her chin up and her eyes forward. She looks dangerous. She looks terrified. In the dark, she looks a lot like John, almost more than Jane does, and the resemblance makes your heart ache. John’s her family. You’ve not been fair to her, she’s scared just as shitless and just as angry as you are and she still came with you to protect you. When you reach out to grab her hand, she’s already reaching back and tangling fingers with you.

Her grip is bruising.

*

Prospit is alive with the glowing flicker of torches. Briefly you remember the flames, the heat, the screaming. The gunshots.

These are electrical torches however, the light cool and impersonal. The village is hazy with dust, kicked up from scores of hooves, and the night is stifling even though your teeth are clattering.

At the centre of it all is The Marquise, the eye of the storm, all activity revolving around her in organised chaos, carrying pieces of debris along: maps, lights, walkie talkies, bottles of water. Groups of three or four arrive, accept directions, resupply and turn away again. Everybody learns quickly.

You pass Dave, in company of Terezi and Aradia. He does not seem to see you, but Jade and Terezi’s gazes catch and hold for a moment. They don’t touch or speak, Terezi’s blind, but the hold Jade has on your hand eases. You let go completely, because this is private, something that’s theirs, even if both of them continue on in opposite directions.

AR comes trotting in your direction, face a mask of determination - you shake your head in a negative before he has to ask. He inclines his chin and points towards a table off to the side, indicating you should go there with a flick of his fingers before he’s already moving past you, assault rifle braced against his shoulder. The wet, sweat-drenched gleam of his coat glimmers before he’s swallowed by the darkness, alone.

You stare after him, resisting the impulse to do exactly the same - and how you wish you could, that you knew how to shoot, were physically powerful enough to stand a chance if you were mobbed. It’s not that simple, of course, not a show of careless bravery, he’s a professional and you are not. Going out there by yourself would be the single-most detrimental move you could make right now.

Briefly you wonder how Gamzee is, back at the village. Hopefully not haunted by memories the way you are, remembering the ashes, the smell, the noises (he will be, there will be nightmares - both yours and his).

A soft, sibilant voice calls you out of your reverie. “You three look thirsty,” Calliope says, coiling up high on her tail until she can arch over the table to offer two bottles. The limpid light of the lantern on the table runs in a gleaming wave along down her sleekly scaled body, stopping short at the hem of her fluffy sweater. She sloshes the bottles invitingly.

There’s the briefest moment of sheepish snickering when both Nepeta and Jade accept a bottle, and attempt to pass them to you.

“One is fine,” you tell them, accepting Nepeta’s, but you can’t quite manage a smile. “I’m going to report in with The Marquise,” you add and trot off without drinking, leaving the bottle on the table. It’s a bit of a dick move, but you know Callie and she’ll say something nice, she’ll say something to try and make you feel better, and if she does you won’t be able to take it.

And you so fucking can’t afford to lose your shit right now.

You’ve already proven yourself worthless beyond measure, you really do not need to add blubbering like a snotty sprinkler to your growing list of failures. It won’t help John.

The Marquise has set up what you can only call a command base, surrounded by benches, papers and laptops. A radio crackles nearby. It’s very different from the set up you have in Alternia, you’d be bitter about the show of sleek technology at any other time. If your village - the old village - had had this, would they… no. Stop it, have beens are useless. They’re dead and won’t come back, but John might (has to be, _has to be_ ) still be alive and you are fucking glad you are not reduced to oil lamps and screaming your throats raw.

The Marquise tosses her head, her magnificent antlers describing an arc in the air. You push your way to the front, having to fight for every inch with your unimpressive stature. Her eyes find you regardless. Instead of demanding your report as per custom, she turns away and calls, “He’s back.”

Your dad pops out from behind a map. “Karkat,” he says, sheer relief plain on his face. He doesn’t like you going out there. Lets you, because you’d never forgive him if he didn’t. “Anything?”

You shake your head. The frown is back on his face before he disappears once more behind his map. To the Marquise you say, “Jade and Nepeta are fine, they’re rehydrating. We found no signs of passage or struggle. Just. Nothing.”

She tsks. “He can’t be far now, we’ve searched nearly all areas.”

“Alright,” you sigh and gesture to a heavily marked map spread out on the table. Areas are either crossed out or circled and two have questions marks; one of them being the deeper recesses of the gorge, the river the other. “Where should we go next?”

“Well, I’d like you and the girls to check out the hunting trail. Both Jade and Nepeta are fam…iliar… with… oh, god.”

“What?” you ask, abruptly scared shitless by how faint her voice’s gone, the shellshocked gaze aimed over your shoulder. “What is-“

That’s when you notice it, the ripple of shocked silence travelling through the town square, snatching everybody’s voice and breath away, leaving them as still as a graveyard. You hardly dare to turn.

(someone came back)

(what if their face—)

(what if it’s a body—)

(his b-)

(no)

No.

You turn around and nearly - nearly, not quite, you won’t fucking let yourself - burst into tears right there and then.

John fucking Egbert just decided to drop by and see what the fuss is all about.

“What’s going on? Who’s missing?” John demands, all but barreling into the crowd at a gallop. His hooves strike sparks on the rough concrete and Bec is hot on his heels, trailing ropes of drool as he barks himself into a frenzy with the sheer pressure of the atmosphere.

You can’t believe it.

There he is, not a single hair harmed on his beautiful sleek body, backpack hooked all nice and casual over his shoulder like he just came back from a nice relaxing stroll.

“John,” Mr. Egbert says, and his voice breaks on the name.

“Dad? Dad!” he shoves aside PM with barely a blink to trot up to him. “What is it? Are you okay? Is it… is Jane, dad, what’s-“

“YOU _FUCKING_ IDIOT!”

It rings through the night sky and it sure as fuck wasn’t you. For once. It’s Jade, fingers clamping her crumpled bottle so hard water jettisoned straight into the air and treated Nepeta to an impromptu shower.

And just like that everybody bursts into uproar. The Marquise sighs, begins rolling up maps with what only can be described as methodical rage. Your dad is laughing, too loud, too strained and completely jarring. Through the crowd you spot Dave, face paler than usual and eyes gleaming, jaw set. Jake claps John on the shoulder a relieved grin in place, is pushed aside by Jade who gets right up into John’s face and begins shrieking at him like all unholy hell unleashed.

John flattens his ears, blinks, looks completely confused as he attempts to back up, and then Jane shoulders Jade aside and slaps her twin across the face with a blow that rings across the square and startles everybody all over again.

Utter silence.

“Be glad I didn’t sock you right in the kisser and knock all your teeth out!” she seethes. “I can’t _believe_ you, John.” Her voice goes thick on his name, “I can’t believe you.” She throws her arms around him and hugs him, hard. 

One of John’s hands is cupping his cheek, which much smart like hell because Jane’s one of the strongest centaurs you know, but despite that, despite the hit, his other arm settles around her to hug her back. They’re not identical, Jane’s build is stockier and shorter, her coat lightly dappled duns, John bows over her like a shadow. “What, Jane, I don’t…”

“Where _were_ you?”

“I was just down by the lake with Bec,” John splutters.

“For six blistering hours?” Jane snarls, rearing up on her hinds legs to shove him away from her in a renewed surge of fury.

John nearly sits down on his ass, he scrambles to keep his hooves under him. “Uhm. I kind of took a nap after I finished homework? But. Jane, please, who…“

“YOU, YOU STINKER!” Jane yells. “We thought it was _you_.”

“We thought you were up and taurnapped, you big lug,” Roxy explains. “Pretty pony like you…”

“ _Me_?!” John blurts. “But-“

“WE’RE ALL AT RISK!” Jane yells and there’s a ferocious rawness to it, one of narrowly dodged grief. “ _All of us_! Honestly, John, after Tavros and Vriska, after _Karkat_ , what will it take for you to understand that-“

He’s not listening anymore, you can tell. As soon as Jane spoke your name his attention unhinged and went scouting around until, ah, he’s seen you. Your eyes meet.

God, you’re so. fucking. angry.

And there he is, the absolute shit, looking at you like you’re going to trot up to him with a stomach full of sympathy for his plight. He really must not know you all that well, huh, because he couldn’t be more fucking wrong, because you are absolutely, incandescently _livid_. Everything in you seethes with the urge to rush up to John and either kiss him or kill him yourself, you’re not sure yet, you guess you’ll find out when you get there, it’ll be a motherfucking surprise for everybody yourself included.

Everybody jumps aside when you storm up to him, you’re not even yelling until you’re there, rearing up on your hind legs and getting in his face to snarl, “You stupid turd of a horse,” and somehow, you’re not sure how, his cheeks are between your palms (can feel the left one radiate heat from Jane’s slap) and he’s close enough you can smell the water of the lake on him, close enough you can see how his coat has dried into crisp little licks of hair. And… and close enough your harsh exhale brings your lips glancing across his, and oh, oh fffffff- _uck_ , that’s it, you felt that to your core, he’s _so_ warm. Both your eyes flutter shut at the whisper of sensation, god, fuck, you’re close enough to hear the soft sigh hitch over the threshold of his mouth, the way his whole being leans towards you, eyes going hooded, closer, _more_ , you want that so damn bad…

He doesn’t fucking deserve it. 

“I thought you were DEAD,” you growl, and push away from him. Your hooves clap down onto the stones. Somehow you find your fingertips grazing his thorax, unable to let go completely. The thunder of his heart thrums through the thin fabric of his shirt, thick and reassuring.

“Ka-“

“NO. NO FUCK YOU,” you scream. “If you think I’m going to reward you for scaring the blistering shit out of me you better fucking think again. Then again, it’s clear your unreasonably attractive head is devastatingly devoid of common sense, a better solution would be to scoop the gangrenous lump of gray matter you call a brain out and replace it with a sponge soaked in our bitter tears, John Egbert, _that’s_ how utterly stupid you are,” at the end of that your voice is tattered with emotion, all gravel and fury - but also abject relief. Because you were scared.

No, terrified. For a moment, a single disgusting, hideous moment, it was real. It was real. John was gone, stolen, butchered, alive and wishing he wasn’t, and you’d let him slip from right under your nose, lulled by the gilded haze of summer.

For a moment, the only thing you had left was regret. Searing, savage regret. For not being a better scout, a better friend. For never having had the backbone to tell him, well. How much you liked him. A whole lot of painful truths had been rattled loose, and just pulling his mouth down on yours would solve so fucking many of them.

But you’re not going to do that. Especially because he wants it. You were pretty sure before, now it’s obvious from the way he physically strains after you, the way he sucks under his bottom lip and the naked longing plain on his face now he’s almost had a taste.

“Don’t ever-“ you start, but, no, there’s Mr. Egbert, and he looks solemn. He looks sad and disappointed and a decade older, back sunken, lustre gone. As angry as you are, this is for them now.

“Karkat,” John says again, expression bruised around the edges and crumbling completely when you take another step back.

“I thought you were dead,” you whisper. “You asshole.”

And then you turn and leave.

*

It’s early morning by the time you get home.

You’re empty, sore, and you feel like you could curl up like a withered leaf and be whisked away by a sigh of wind.

The herd troops into the village more than a little resentful that one thoughtless teenager’s actions would see such stress and resources fall into exhausted relief. Not, of course, that anybody wishes any real harm’d befall John. It’s just that, considering your history, there’s more than a few affronted parties bitterly regretting tonight’s whole circus over, basically, a hare-brained kerfuffle. Barely any words of goodbye are exchanged as individuals peel away from the herd to seek out the comfort of their homes, anxious to put the freshly stirred muddle of memories to rest within a partner’s embrace.

AR accompanied you, eight hundred pounds of walking armoury and seemingly tireless. Personally you think he’s sorry he didn’t get to shoot jack fucking shit and fuck, can you commiserate with _that_. Your father turns to thank him, perhaps even invite him in for a drink - you don’t linger long enough to find out. Just go inside to find the house currently deserted - your whole family had gone to Prospit to look for the boy you like. You stumble through the dark gloom towards your room and slip inside.

There’s someone curled up in the comfortable den of your bed - not completely deserted then. The night presents you with a silhouetted heap of lanky limbs and two spiralling spokes jutting up from a nest of wiry hair.

Gamzee.

You strip off your shirt, drop it to the floor where it lands limp and dank with the sweat of your fear, and collapse into bed. You have to close your eyes against how good it is, how familiar and grounding - his warmth, his scent, the shape of his colossal skeletal frame.

“Mrrh, brother,” Gamzee grunts as you jostle into his side, poking him in the ribs with your hooves and knees and elbow in an attempt to wedge yourself as close to him as you can. One big hand gropes around until he finds your flank, spidery fingers skittering through your coat. He tugs you close, settles a front leg over your waist. “Get your motherfucking find on?”

You turn your face towards the safety of his body, nose pressed hard into his chest. It’s dark, he cannot see your face, there’s just scent and touch, the taste of his presence at the back of your tongue, the shudder of your breath. You go small, ears and tail down and curling up tight around the centre of your self, like a fawn told to hide (- _hide, daddy’ll be back_ ). 

You’re seventeen, but your village is still burning.

“…Karkat?” Gamzee sounds a lot more awake. Every muscle in his body locks tight. “Give me some of your wicked noise here.”

“He’s fine,” you choke out. “We found him.”

A big heavy hand lands on your curls, fitting nicely between the nubs of your antlers. “Ah. Now if that ain’t a legit miracle.”

He doesn’t say anything about the hot flood of wetness on your face, the barely stifled gasps for air, all of it furiously locked behind your teeth. Just drapes himself all around you, scritching and petting and combing your hair until you give up and just… let go. 

You haven’t cried like this in a long, long time.

“I got you, best friend,” Gamzee hums, the vibrations of his throat tickle your cheek. Calloused thumbs swipe your cheeks dry ever so often. “Let all them heinous ghosts out.”

It takes a while. You’re so angry. You were so very fucking scared. For a moment, it was very real. John was gone, and you had failed him.

The both of you are still awake to see the first fingers of dawn pluck at the wooden blinds, and there’s golden fingers of dawn highlighting your dapples before you finally succumb to a restless, headachy sleep.

*

The following afternoon finds the whole village lethargic, but determined to go about business as usual. This isn’t made any fucking easier due to the heat. Hot summer air wallows in the village, thick with humidity. There’ll be rain before nightfall.

The kitchen is the heart of the village, and thus usually overcrowded. People pass through at all hours, whether it is to eat or cook, to exchange information or just to hang out and be general nuisance. There’s always someone bringing in fresh meat or vegetables, maybe fruit plucked straight from the orchards in Prospit. But now there’s no one occupying the wooden tables, catching a quick bite or stealing a honey cake, no children underhoof.

Today you’re all alone. Suspiciously so, because you could fucking swear you heard commotion in here earlier. You’re too damn tired to question it.

In fact, you came to see if you could eat, but your stomach tied itself into a knot and attempted to vacate the premises. You’ve been ever so thoughtfully given no other chores besides ‘rest up’ - another big oozing wad of nope, so you fetched a basket of potatoes and are scrubbing those instead. Well, trying to, your punishing pace and inattentive mind mean you’ve scraped your way straight through the peel more than once.

Eventually The Dolorosa drifts in and settles herself at one of the tables, tucking all four legs neatly underneath. Really, you should have fucking known this was going to be a _thing_. The kitchen was a trap, and you bumbled straight into it because apparently you _never fucking learn_.

“Be a darling and make me a cup of tea,” she asks. You don’t miss how she’s politely redirecting your rage from murdering any more root vegetables. You obligingly fill up the kettle. “Make yourself one while you’re at it,” she adds.

Whoop there it is. The Talk. 

…fuck.

Abort abort. You do not, in fact, want to talk about it. You’re perfectly content just brooding, awaiting that very special day it hatches into a shrieking disaster only fit for filial cannibalism. 

You steel yourself to tell her, say no, please, you’re tired, not today, but she just _sits_ there, cradling her mug between her long fingered hands and sipping at it.

Your own grows cold, sitting forgotten on the countertop.

Somehow her silence is so much worse. It’s because she knows you too well, knows you won’t be able to resist the temptation and you’ll open your mouth and words’ll come out and it’ll be fucking godawful. Your tail is up and quivering in aggravated alarm and it takes quite some willpower to flatten the damn thing down.

“So,” you grit out, because you really are a fucking idiot like that.

“So,” she agrees, quite graciously. “I have just returned from Prospit, we’re being given ten crates of strawberries as a token of gratitude for our involvement. John was there, he seemed quite repentant. He, ah, was asking for you.”

You scoff, lip curling. “Well, that’s just too fucking bad for John, isn’t it.”

Mama D looks at you, lips tied into a disapproving bow.

You frown. “Don’t.”

“I am not doing anything at all.”

“I’m allowed to be angry at him.”

“Of course you are,” she agrees, so nice, so easy, and you don’t know if you should feel better or worse. Part of you wants her to excuse his actions, just so you have reason to mercilessly rag on him and loudly explain to her all of the ways she’s wrong.

Like this the anger remains yours, there’s no way for it to go. It’s left raging right in the motherfucking core of your being, and it’s your responsibility to take the ugly thing out for a walk around the block and wait until it’s shat out all that ire. You want someone to aim it at, a reason to shove it out past your curling lips in all it’s ugly glory. It’s straightforward and flexible, can easily be directed from one subject to another if need be. If you pass it on, it’s less yours.

But.

You breathe. “I’m angry because it feels like… like he thinks he’s fucking above it. Like it’s only something that happens to _us_.”— to cervitaurs —“He doesn’t understand, Mama D.”

She nods. “He doesn’t.”

You’re nodding too, slightly frantic. “There’s so much he just doesn’t fucking get and, I mean, fuck, every time I think we finally got some misunderstanding sorted out there’s a new one and. And they keep getting bigger and worse and more complicated a-and I don’t know if I can-“

Can _what_ , really? You don’t know, is the problem. You don’t know.

Where do you even begin?

The equitaurs are so alike your people, but different in all the ways that matter, all the ones that trip you up and send you stumbling, confused and a little hurt. You just don’t know if he’ll ever really understand. _You_ ; why you are the way you are, and everything that had to fall to pieces before you arrived here. Or you him, for that matter. He’s utterly perplexing and alien and lovely, and sometimes you don’t know what to do about it at all. The distance’s been there, always, cultural baggage that refused to match up. After yesterday, that rift suddenly opened into a hopeless ravine and the edges are crumbling under your hooves, despite knowing he really _is_ waiting for you on the other side, reaching.

You’re in love with him, is the problem.

It stopped being just a crush, fuck, ages ago. You kind of knew that, but after yesterday’s scare you just fucking know you’re in deep shit. There’s an urgency to it now, now that you’ve been reminded how fragile it all is and how little time there might be left, how laughably easy it is to lose it all. You don’t want to waste anymore time, because there might be only a limited amount of it - and you don’t want to spend it being scared of what he does to you.

You want him, really fucking badly, enough to be restless with it - you could go to him, right now, and kiss him. He’d let you. 

He’d let you.

He’d kiss _back_.

You could have it. Him. And that makes it hard to remember it might not be that easy (or is it? you don’t know, you don’t know you don’t know _you don’t fucking know!_ ).

You breathe in deep, let it out again, good and slow because thinking about it makes you feel like you’re being strangled to a defeated standstill. It has feeling a bit like you might just cry for no good reason. Licking your lips, you open your mouth to try and explain to her, somehow, but your mouth is empty and your heart is even more so.

Dappled light fuzzes through the leaves. It’s warm, and absolutely gorgeous weather, but you’re shaky and at loss.

You try again. “It’s-“

Complicated? Ha ha, _no_. Well, yeah, obviously. But. Oh god. What is this even?

“It’s not easy.”

Oh yes. Much better. Obviously.

You pull at your hair.

Mama D interrupts you, “Sweetheart, it is not me you should have this conversation with.” Then, gentler, “It is _John_ , he’s a good boy, I expect he will listen if you explain it to him. You cannot expect him to understand if you don’t even try.”

“I know,” you say sullenly. “But this is like practice. I kind of just really want to yell at him a lot and call him a thrill seeking tapeworm with kamikaze issues. Yeah. Not going to be helpful, huh? Thought so.”

“I don’t see why you can’t start by repeating to him what you’ve already told me. The rest will come as you go along.”

Oh, it probably will, you don’t doubt that. It’s just the lack of volume control you’re worried about. Screaming is easy. Feelings not so much.

“I hope you realize you’re asking me to talk about my feelings,” the last word hangs there like a dirty sock. 

Perish the thought, you’d rather shove this basket full of sandy potatoes up your hairy rear end. You’d rather spend a whole afternoon doing that instead of wrangling your way through an obstacle course of adolescent farrago and cultural dissonances. Between you and John that is a recipe for disaster. 

Of course, The Dolorosa levels one of those trademark Maryam-certified unimpressed stares at you. “Oh no,” she deadpans, “the horror.”

“It’s hard. It’s hard and nobody understands,” you say, only half joking. Then, “…fine.”

Because, really, she’s right.

She always is.

*

You kind of meant ‘fine, I’ll go tomorrow’. 

Or, if you’re being completely honest, tomorrow actually being sometime next week.

Not on Mama D’s watch. You really should have fucking known, dammit.

In less than five minutes you’re bundled up and on the road with Darkleer as an unlikely escort. You’ve got the niggling suspicion it’s going to be the most awkward afternoon of your miserable fucking life, really, you can just fucking tell. 

You don’t even manage to hustle the small talk beyond the weather-stage of the conversation. You _tried_ okay?! Went ‘huh, sunny’ and he grunted back. That was it. In fact, you’re not sure you can remember the last time you heard him talk. You’re pretty sure he can, but he doesn’t seem the type to waste it on small fries such as yourself. Fine. Besides, you’re way too busy experiencing crippling stress about the impending social fiasco to waste time on chitchat.

Prospit sprawls between an endless patchwork of flowing fields. The village straddles one main road, which spears off into the distance towards Derse. Travelling from Alternia, Prospit can be reached via a big sandy trail, previously poorly travelled until your village exponentially expanded in both size and population. It occurs to you that for an otherwise pointless track, it’s awfully well maintained. All flat, hard earth hemmed with berry bushes and rioting wildflowers… planted for Alternia’s benefit, you realize.

Darkleer really takes his job too fucking seriously, god. He walks you all the way up to the Egbert residence, drops you off like a chaperone. Proceeds to fucking stand there like a four-legged musclebound gargoyle until you just give the hell up and push the thrice damned doorbell already.

Jane opens the door. She looks from you to Darkleer. Who sketches a bow so deep his knee kisses the ground, like he’s greeting the future monarch of a foreign nation. Which, okay _fine_ , isn’t that far from the truth. Why does he need to be such a creepy and sweaty asshole about it, though? Urgh. He unfolds, nods, and strides off without further word. Creepy fuck.

You shrug a shoulder awkwardly. “Yeah. So that sure was a thing.”

Both of you blink at each other. She looks just as tired and miserable as you feel.

“I can come back some other time,” you offer hastily. Even as you say it your stomach tumbles over itself in an awkward pirouette of relief and dismay.

She gives a little jolt, lashes fluttering rapidly as though coming awake. “No, not at all. Wait here.”

The door’s left open a fraction, you can hear the clop of her hooves retreating further within the house as she calls out for her father ( _DAAAAAAAAAD_ ). Well, at least you’re not the only one who just bellows ‘daaaaaaad’ into the void to summon a parental unit. You’re left to wait out the rapid-fire, muted conversation taking place, so you look towards the clear sky. Not a cloud in sight, but the air shudders as thunder grumbles.

A third voice joins them. You go tense, and a little faint for how your heart kicks into your throat. He sounds subdued, and that’s exactly what he looks like when the door swings wide and he’s standing right there, before you. Subdued.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

“Hey,” you manage, stepping aside to give him room to turn.

As he manoeuvres to shut the door his tail swishes lightly against your upper front legs, so you back off - two, three more steps. John’s throat clicks before he faces you again. There’s a wry smile plastered on his face. “Come to bail me out, huh? I kind of got grounded, sorta. Dad put me on supervised fieldwork with Jake and Rufioh, which is kind of boring, but they really needed the help, because. Yeah. You know.”

You do know. 

It’s clever of Mr. Egbert, thoroughly tailored to both rebuke John and provide a daily reminder why what he did was fucking dumb. What the consequences could have been —have been for others. Tavros is still recovering. If, you know, he ever will. Recover.

“Yeah. I know,” you echo.

John’s ears go back, not quite flat in the same terrified as yesterday, but definitely upset. “Yeah,” the word’s stretched along a heavy exhale. “We got two only hours, so I was thinking of heading to the path along the cornfield? It’s close enough they can still see us, but not overhear, I checked and that was okay. They just don’t want me… out there. For a while. I mean I’m not… er, allowed out of town. So I don’t—“

John glances at you. The apology is stark in his eyes.

“—know when I can come and visit you again.”

Oh.

Well fuck. Goddammit, John. This, when summer vacation is practically around the corner. There’d been plans. More races, a massive sleepover, a visit to Derse. Swimming the first weekend. Fuck, you’d looked forward to that, John’d boasted he was practically a seahorse and you’d kind of wanted to see him all wet and gleaming. Plus, yeah, messing around in the water with your friends just sounds really damn nice.

Doesn’t mean you don’t get to do all that shit. Just means John won’t be there for most of it. 

You watch your hooves gather dust around the coronary band. Most emphatically do not notice the well-oiled cadence of John’s body next to yours as the both of you follow the narrow track out towards the fields. Sun glitters in sleek arcs across his coat. You don’t notice that either. As you pass into the open area beyond the village proper the bustle of the town fades into the busy buzz of crickets. Long grass sways in your wake.

“Well, _say_ something!”

The cornfield is about a stone’s throw away. Close enough.

“What the hell do you _want_ me to say?” you snarl at him. “Shit, John.”

John looks at you, all big blue eyes. “Look. I didn’t mean to upset-“

“Upset? Who’s upset here? Are we talking about how we all thought you were dead, because I can’t imagine why anyone would be upset about that. Good riddance!” your voice cracks horribly at the end.

John looks miserable. “I’m sorry.”

Right. _Right_. You know he’s sorry. You know he is. But hearing he is really doesn’t change anything at all. Fuck. Just. FUCK.

You swallow. “John. I don’t think this’ll work.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Voice shaking, John asks, “…what?”

“We’re too different,” saying it hurts. More than you thought it would.

Have to say it. Maybe, like this, if you spend the summer apart, you can still be friends after. If you’re really fucking careful about it.

“What are you talking about?” he just stands there, like you hit him. Stares at you with this sheer incredulity, the kind that twists the knife just this little bit deeper. 

It pisses you off. It’s his own damn fault, he doesn’t get to be hurt about it.

So you tell him. “Okay. I’ll fucking spell it out for you. You’re welcome. First item on the list, and boy, let me tell you, John, while the list is positively epic, this particular bullet point is the primordial genesis of all the bullshit that follows, a veritable big bang of cranial failure. Here it comes— you’re an idiot. You have no goddamn clue just how serious this is. Instead you’re just sort of there, skipping around like your common sense has been cauterised and replaced by an infomercial jingle.”

“Hey now!”

“Shut up, I wasn’t fucking finished. Those rules, John? The ones constructed to keep us from meeting the same fate as Tavros, or worse? They apply to you, too. Actually, it’s not about disobeying them, but have a merry fuck you for that anyway, it’s that you looked those rules right in their freshly constructed typefaces and figured they couldn’t possibly be relevant to your existence. Clearly you’re different. Special.”

You very narrowly avoid adding: _an equitaur_.

“I don’t-“

“Yes, exactly! Thank you for proving my point. You don’t understand, John. It’s like we’ve been primed to trample all over each other’s sore spots, exactly where it’ll hurt the most. Yesterday is only the tip of the iceberg, there’s a whole glacier of heartache lying in wait to bite us in the blubber as soon as we let our guards down. God, that’s it, we’re the goddamn Titanic, you and I.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re trying to say here.”

From the livid look on his face, you know he totally does. You scoff. “Yeah, fucking you do.”

John sets his jaw. “No, I really fucking don’t. After all, being an equitaur makes me kind of dumb about stuff like that.”

There. He’s said it. He went there. Just went and clobbered the nail right on the head.

He looks savagely pleased to call you out on it, and suddenly you’re ashamed of yourself. You’re the one doing what you’re blaming him for.

“God! You’re so. So… I really hate you sometimes, you douchebag, fuck. Why does everything to be so… so difficult when you’re around?!”

John actually tosses his head and stamps his front foot. “You’re the one who makes it difficult!” he counters, tone acid.

“Oh please.”

“It’s true. You’re telling me I don’t understand, well okay, maybe I don’t! But you keep waving it in my face and acting like I’m too dumb to get it so you won’t even bother, you asshole.”

“It’s obvious! We die out there, okay? Centaurs. You’re not above that, you’re not safe from that. It’s not because you have a brick house and indoor plumbing and went to school with the nice happy two-legged shitpoles you’re one of _them_. John.”

“I KNOW!” John yells. “I know. I fucked up, I know. Jane said, _what if it was me?_ and I know, okay. I don’t think I’m safe because I’m an equitaur, Karkat, so you can stop implying like I think you guys got it coming or something.”

“That’s not-“

“It totally is,” he says. “Why would you even want to be friends with me if you think that’s the kind of person I am?”

Because you’re a coward, you suppose. You know he isn’t. It just gives you a reason to keep pushing him away.

John shakes his head. “Whatever. Besides, I can’t rewind yesterday, so what do you want me to do about it?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, feeling like a total piece of shit.

“I know it was careless and really really dumb, and I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry I scared you. But, dude, I also don’t want to feel like I have to be afraid someone will kill me every single second of my life. I want to live. I want to go out there.”

That’s not about yesterday, or racing, or playing in the water. Not about Derse even.

Weirdly, briefly, he reminds you of your father.

You look away, towards the horizon. The storm is a forming a bruise in the distance. “I couldn’t… can’t go with you.”

John tilts his head, expression genuinely curious. “Why not?”

“I just-“

Somehow you don’t have an answer to that, either, and you’re just lost amidst words and your own stupid fucking misgivings. The whole conversation completely got away from you and now you’re standing there, unsure what is even happening and how it is John who actually seems to understand what you’re too scared to tell him. 

You’re not even sure you’re all that angry with him after all.

Just scared.

John takes a step closer. “You could, Karkat. I know you totally could. But. I’d come back for you,” he tells you.

And that right there, god, you close your eyes against it with a choked-off sigh. How dare he? 

That’s so unfair and so horrible and entirely wonderful and just what you needed to hear and no, no, _no_ , oh god, two warm hands scoop your face between his palms and he bows down, fuck, such a long way because you’re vertically challenged, but he curls towards you until his forehead bumps into yours.

Noses brush, his exhales fall hot on your lips as he slots his nose next to yours. He’s so warm, and close enough your lashes stoke along the surface of his glasses. There’s fingers in your hair, gathering your curls in kneading fistfuls, brushing shivery-good along the slight jut of your antlers. Thumbs trace your cheekbones in soft swipes.

It’s not something you’ve seen equitaurs do, and you know it’s just him copying the moment after the race… 

“You goddamn bastard,” you choke out, which merely earns a smile because your own hands’ve already come up to tickle shy fingers against his neck, stroking lightly. It’s almost like an embrace, but _more_ , so much more for how powerfully your heart thunders in your chest. This, this right here, goes beyond words. It’s a gesture that can be done, but not be told, and he’s got you.

Yeah. Maybe he does understand. 

You feel hot and achy all through, mouth prickling with the need to kiss him. You slide your cheeks together and shudder out an exhale.

“I’m sorry for making you worry,” John says, and then his mouth finds yours.

It’s very soft, just a warm press of his lips against yours, restrained and slow, like he’s puzzling out the shape of you against him. The sensation rings through your body from head to hooves and you just stand there, shaking, as he slides his mouth over yours. Allows the both of you to disconnect, exhales, comes back a little faster, a little more reckless, a little wetter. Fingers stroke down cheeks, eyes meet, smiles sneak into the kisses which grow languid and deep until your belly tightens with need.

It’s the middle of the day and the air feels hot and close. Thunder rumbles in the distance like a hungry thing. You are hungry, too, only John is right there.

You move your mouth from the heat of his lips to the soft hollow below his ear, grin at the catch in his throat, a little _hmn_.

If you don’t stop, you won’t ever. You need to make sure of one last thing before boarding this beautiful train wreck. “What about Gamzee?” you ask John.

You’ve totally noticed John is weird about Gamzee. Kinda obvious when John does that puffy-cheeked chipmunk face that means he’s forcing a smile whenever he interacts with Gamzee (something he actively avoids when he can get away with it.) 

You’re not giving him up. No matter how good - how right - this feels, if John asks you to give up Gamzee you know he can’t be worth it.

John does his puffy-cheeked thing - the resulting smile a rictus - pulls back a little. Shrugs. Then shrugs again. “Hrgh. I don’t _knooooow_ ,” he groans, wiping a hand down his face. “I mean, I’ll be jealous and I do think it’s kind of weird, but I’ll deal with it. Try not to be too much of a dick about it, I guess.”

A quiet huff of laughter escapes you. A little relieved, a little worried, fuck, a lot of both. “Try being the operative word,” you mutter and then your brow furrows in consternation, because between jealous and weird it occurs to you… “John?”

“Karkat,” he says, looking only vaguely concerned.

“You know Gamzee and I aren’t fucking. Right?”

Pause.

“You're... not?”

Your palm smacks into your forehead like a thunderclap. “I don’t know why I thought you’d be smarter than that, holy shit, I should’ve fucking known the shallow pool of your brain pissing itself in perpetual shame wouldn’t be able to fathom a ferocious affection that doesn’t inevitably lead up to the coarse melody of genitals voraciously grinding together.”

John blinks. “First of all: ew, way to make that sound gross. Second of all: phew,” a world of tension suddenly flows from his body, more than you ever expected him holding on to. “I wasn’t sure if I could, er, share.”

“I’m not a snickers bar, you oaf,” you spit.

“Bet you’re tastier than one,” he fires back.

You smack his hindquarters, hard enough he yelps and hops away, tail swishing through the air. Why does your face feel like it’s on fire, it’s not fair.

John’s wagging his brows, playful, and you _want_ to be distracted now, but you have to say it, hate that you've got to.

“John, I can’t… promise it won’t ever happen,” the words stick strangely in the scrape of your throat.

Part of you does want to say, hey, only you. 

That wouldn’t be fair, and it might be a lie.

All he says is, “I know.” Soft enough the crickets nearly drown it out.

God, he looks so fucking sad about it, too. You don’t understand it. Don’t understand their rigid conviction there’s only ever room for one such person in their lives, like their capacity to love is a well that’ll dry up and you better only dedicate it to that one perfect person for the rest of your life (especially when nobody is perfect).

Why? There’s different reasons to love different people - and different ways to love, at that - and it doesn’t have to mean someone comes out short in the equation. Like falling in love with someone else is proof you never truly loved the first partner, that it wasn’t the real thing. It’s so narrow-minded, so blatantly not true that you just… don’t fucking understand how they can believe that.

Perhaps it really is different for them, are equitaurs just wired in a different way and you’re just not culturally sensitive enough.

Still. If that is true, and John only ever loves you, that’s - yeah. Wow. Also shit. Makes this whole deal an even bigger deal than it already is.

No kids, a fact you’re painfully aware of. Little ones are important, perpetually balanced on the edge of genocide as you are. And yes, it absolutely fucking sucks that should be one of the main concerns when deciding to procreate, but it’s the ugly damn truth of the matter. If John wasn’t so hellbent on you five-ever and after, he could find someone to carry his children.

Secondly the two of you aren’t exactly physically compatible. You’d… hurt each other trying to love each other. Penetrative sex is off the menu (and yeah, that really shouldn’t be a priority, but it still sucks so damn hard you want to tear out your own hair and scream how it isn’t fair).

You look at him, John Egbert, the way the sun gleams in ripples of light along his coat, over half a ton of solidified energy. Some dark, musty corner of your psyche is really into that, how he’s bigger, how he towers over you, how it might feel if he —yeah. Your boyfriend is hung like a horse. Literally. And you won’t get to enjoy it. Boo fucking hoo, Karkat, really, stop thinking about it.

URGH.

He’s wretchedly gorgeous and tall and sleek and _yours_ now, you think. You hope. Those fey blue eyes pop against that pretty dark skin and there’s hope there too, all trooped together on the threshold of his lids, peeking out at you timidly.

Dangerously attractive John Egbert, who’s too coltish to recognize his own potential.

You reach out, backs of your knuckles drifting along his cheek. The emotion shatters all across his expression, a million hopeless things all at once.

“Alright,” you rasp out, breath catching as he tips his face into your hand. “Alright.”

He’s smiling, smiling, _smiling_ , happy enough he actually dances on the spot, legs lifting up high one, two, three, like the show horses on television. A hand find yours, lifts it hight to press a kiss against the back. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Hey, don’t worry. We’ll figure out the interspecies sloppy makeouts, dude. How hard can it be?”

Hard, you’re guessing. You’re still worried. You’re still scared; but half a smile crooks along your lips, almost bashful because between this and a handful of heartbeats you’re going to be kissed so fucking _good_ , you can see it in his face.

You’re not wrong, either. John leans in, winks. “Just gotta make sure we have lots and lots of practise.”

You kinda want to smack him, but not as much as you want to kiss him. 

“C’mere you doofus,” you growl, but your heart is in your voice.

 

Two hours later finds you both unfurled in the yellowed grass. It’s a tangle of limbs and arms, John underneath and front legs tangled with yours as you match kisses to his mouth until he’s pliant and feverish with it, wordlessly drowning in the discovery of each other. You get to touch now, skate fingers along that deep dark coat of his, outline dips and divots and ridges in the lean muscle. You find his heart, one and then the other, capture both of them in your palms to feel them resonate, while John presses lips to your shoulder and counts your dapples.

And tweaks your tail, saying he’s been waiting to do that _for ages_.

But practice you do.

So diligently you forget all about the time, just lie there looking at each other bathed in the syrupy gold light of late summer afternoon while rain growls in the distance.

Nobody says anything about it, not a single word about the grass in John’s hair, your swollen lips or the way you’re both breathing hard from running (and fervent making out). 

John’s father winks, though, and insists you stay for dinner.

“After all,” he says, “you’re practically married now.”

“DAD!” John shrieks.

Mr. Egbert holds up his hands. “A mere jest, son, hold your horses.”

“Oh my god, dad, stop. You’re going to freak him out,” he hisses, and to you, quieter, “I’m sorry, my family is crazy.”

You snort. “If you think that’s bad wait until you have dinner with mine.”

And, yeah, alright, you take certain sadistic glee at John’s gobsmacked expression when he realises he’s got to come over and meet basically the whole goddamned village — the same the goddamn village that spent half a night looking for his taurnapped ass.

Serves him right.

 

_-fin-_

**Author's Note:**

> Do check out the [Centaurstuck tag](http://everlind.tumblr.com/tagged/Centaurstuck) on my tumblr, as it has a TON of additional info and amazing artwork! Feel free to pop any questions you might have into my inbox, we're always happy to answer those!


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